The Writing on the Wall
by The Scorpion
Summary: Someone has committed murder at the Opera in Christine's name, and she does not know which of her two jealous suitors is the more likely suspect.
1. Lord d'Arcy is an Imbecile

Welcome friends!

Just a quick note: The character of Lord d'Arcy is inspired by and named after the character who stole the Phantom's music in the 1962 Hammer Horror movie version of Phantom (and he is also slightly influenced by the Baron in the 1983 version starring Maximilian Schell). If you have not seen these versions, don't worry, it's not important at all. Enjoy!

-Your Scorpion

**The Writing on the Wall**

Chapter 1 Part 1:

_Lord d'Arcy is an Imbecile_

"Erik… Did you know they were casting for the new opera today?"

Christine's mysterious guardian and voice teacher looked up from the score he was marking. "No. I assure you, I was as surprised as you were."

Christine settled comfortably onto the chaise near his mahogany writing desk and absently perused the shelves of unusual titles that made up Erik's library. "I don't even think the management knew. Lord d'Arcy interrupted our rehearsal and just…took it upon himself to begin auditions then and there." She returned her anxious gaze to Erik. "Is it true he's also insisted upon directing it himself?"

Erik straightened the papers and set them aside. "Yes, that I do know. Unfortunately. He is the simplest minded composer I have encountered in many years." He leaned back in his chair and pressed the tips of his fingers together. "Possibly ever."

"But the opera, Erik… The pieces I have heard… It's beautiful."

"Too beautiful," he nodded. "I would wager anything he paid some poor starving genius quite a sum for it." He stood, and before Christine could respond, he added thoughtfully, "Or did away with him."

"Erik!" she gasped, astounded that he would say such a thing.

He laughed softly. "D'Arcy did not write it, Christine. Any fool who has so much as heard a note of his previous attempts would know that in a moment."

"But all of Paris will think he wrote it when it opens here…"

"A pity," he sighed, and he took the book he sought from a shelf.

She watched him for a few moments as he flipped through its pages before she spoke again. "He approached me… He waited until I was alone."

Erik set the book down on the desk and turned back to face her. "Again?"

She nodded and without thinking, pulled a small round cushion into her lap. "He makes me nervous. This is the third time…"

"Fourth," he corrected her.

"Yes…" Her fingers traced the curve of the pillow.

"What was it this time? More poorly veiled solicitations?"

"No… Well, first he…complimented me. He said that after hearing me sing for him today, he could imagine no other as the leading lady in his opera… He said that I… That I had a voice that could set a man on fire, and if I was not able to display on the stage the…delicious passion his opera needed, he did not think any woman could…"

Erik's tone was dry yet contemplative, "I don't know whether to thank him or to threaten him." He returned to his seat and scanned the page of the book he'd found.

Christine smiled, but only for a moment before she recalled the rest of the conversation. "But then he said that my…technique could use some work."

Erik turned a page and answered sharply without looking up, "Your technique is perfect."

"He said that…if I would accept the role, it would be his pleasure to…coach me privately…"

The next page Erik turned tore right out of the book's binding. His eyes snapped up to hers. "If he so much as goes near your voice, much less the rest of you privately, I'll kill him."

Christine's expression was uncertain, as she did not know whether to smile at the warmth of Erik's overprotective outburst or to shrink back at the very real lethal look in his eyes.

"Not only does he lack talent, Christine, he is simply an imbecile. One session with him, private or not, would surely destroy something vital in the perfect voice I have given you."

She nodded quickly. "I told him I that already have a voice teacher."

"I should hope so."

"He asked who you were…"

"And I should hope you told him that it is none of his business."

She nodded again and hugged the little round pillow to her breast.

Erik looked back at his book and for a moment seemed confused by the torn page in his hand. "As it is," he began in a more thoughtful tone. "I doubt giving you voice lessons is what he actually intends to do with you in private at all. It is not the virtue of your flawless voice that would be in certain danger."

She shuddered and rested her chin on the top edge of the cushion. "It's the way he looks at me… Even when he knows I can see him watching me. And I am not the only one he looks at that way…But why do I feel like I am the only one who does not like it? He even said he could convince the management to increase my salary and give me a larger dressing room. I know other women would jump at the offer, but he makes me feel like he trying to purchase me."

Erik's hand struck the table and he laughed out loud. "If you want a larger salary, Christine, I am the one you ought to ask! I am sorry, though, but your dressing room is staying exactly where it is."

His uninhibited amusement brought a frown to Christine's face. "I don't think it's funny, Erik. He becomes bolder every time. And he always waits until I am alone."

Erik relocated himself to sit at her side on the chaise and he gently pulled the pillow from her arms. "What do you want me to do, my dear? Shall I do away with him?"

She scowled and turned from him. "Please… Must you say things like that?"

He reached across and took her by the wrist to bring her back to face him. "I could write him a letter."

She jerked her wrist from his gentle grasp and stood abruptly. "Obviously you are not concerned!"

He leaned back, resting an elbow against the top of the chaise and let his eyes take their time to reach her face as he looked up at her. When he met her eyes, his were alert with clear assurance. "I do not need to be concerned," he seemed to conclude. "He has only continued to proposition you because, crafty woman that you are, you do not directly refuse him as I know you would be fully capable of doing should you decide to. Hardly a devoted suitor-if you were perhaps but a bit crueler to him, he would not waste another moment on you before he turned to pursue the next susceptible young thing that caught his eye, and instead make her his leading lady. It is only your inability to sever him, my little opportunist, that keeps him in tow. Such an indifferent solicitor is simply not worth my effort. I have more important matters with which to concern myself. Especially when in regards to you, my dear." He paused merely for the sake of gazing at her for a few silent moments more, and then he stood again. "But speaking of other matters, I do not have much time before I must be going."

She silently considered what he had said with more than a hint of disdain for his frankness, and merely watched him leave the room for a stubborn minute before she surrendered her affronted feelings and followed him. "You are going somewhere? But aren't you going to be there tonight?"

"No, once again, there is much more important business that requires my presence than attending some party in his honor."

"Some party?" She stopped, again put off by his condescension. "The whole company will be there along with all the contributing patrons!"

"By all means, do not think to let my absence prevent you from going, Christine."

It was not as if she had a choice. "I am expected to make an appearance."

He went to her and absently waved away a strand of hair that had fallen over her frustrated features. "Well then, tell everybody I say hello."

Christine was not in the least amused. "What if he finds me alone again tonight, Erik?"

"Alone?" Erik stepped back, immediately somber. "I am quite certain your adhesive Vicomte de Chagny will see to it that you are not left alone for a moment."

She glanced away from him, and though she tried to maintain her defensive tone, her voice was much softer. "At least he will be there."

He turned from her and went into the parlor. "Enjoy yourself with him then, Christine. Enjoy the party. Have a ball."

She winced, at once regretting the blatant jealousy she had purposefully provoked. She did not want to go to the party at all, adoring vicomte or no. She again followed Erik into the room, but lingered by the door as she watched him buckle the straps of a strangely shaped black leather satchel.

"And," he continued to speak as if he had never paused. "If your young gentleman is even half the aristocrat he was born to be, he will gallantly protect your honor from all lecherous or otherwise sinister opera composers. Even if he is pathetically inept in all other areas."

Christine was torn between the apologetic sentiment for having reminded Erik of his rival for her affection, and the offence she took at his comments. "I wish you would not speak of him that way, Erik. He is my friend."

Erik gave leather strap a brutal final tug. "Of course he is."

She did not know what to say then and remained in the doorway, silent with downcast eyes until she realized he had approached her and was simply standing before her, waiting. She looked up to him with sudden expectation.

But he only gestured for her to step aside and said flatly, "Excuse me."

Her eyes lingered on his for an immobile moment, and then she moved obediently out of his way. She watched him pass back again into the hall.

"When are you returning?" she called after him softly.

"In the morning." His voice floated back to her as if he had only gone a few steps, not disappeared all the way into the next room. "I will come for you early in the evening. You will stay here tomorrow night."

She leaned against the frame of the door, sighing inaudibly. "And now?"

He reappeared, dressed to go and handed her her own cloak. "Now, my dear, I do believe you have a party to prepare for."

She wrapped the cloak about her shoulders and followed him outside to the boat.


	2. Lord d'Arcy is Vile

Chapter 1 Part 2:

_Lord d'Arcy is Vile_

Christine had chosen a gown of black silk to wear to the party. It was her form of protest. Although the bodice was a bit too low-cut and the gathered skirts hugged the sides of her hips a little too tightly to make the dress appropriate for a funeral, it certainly did not fit into the category of celebratory attire. Raoul, the Vicomte de Chagny, however despite her efforts to appear grave, had all but gaped at her when she had made her first appearance to meet him in the foyer of the Opera, and then further complimented her beauty with lavish phrases of poetic flattery.

That had to have been hours ago, and as Erik had predicted, the young man had since not left her side for so much as a moment. Christine always enjoyed Raoul's company and she could have wished for no more desirable an escort to this event, but she had long since grown weary of the evening of constant effort to completely avoid the guest of honor in the throng of merrymakers who had gradually become merrier as the night and the champagne wore on.

The effort had actually been successful so far for the entire evening, and therefore Raoul was beginning to become suspicious of the continual coincidence of evasions Christine cunningly created. As he stood with her on his arm now in one of the ballrooms, and they sipped uncounted glasses of champagne together while watching the dancers and enjoying obscurity among the crowd, he finally asked her forthright, more suggestively than was normally in his nature:

"When do I get the chance to meet this magnificent Lord d'Arcy for myself? I have been at his party for hours and have not so much as even seen him, much less been properly introduced."

Christine swallowed the last of the effervescent liquid in her glass too quickly, caught off guard by the question, and coughed slightly. She unhooked her arm from Raoul's to accept the handkerchief he offered her and dabbed at her lips. She then took her time to hand the empty glass to a waiter before she met Raoul's eyes, which were still expectant for an answer.

She offered him nothing at first, but then cleared her throat delicately and glanced about the room. Her eyes immediately found the man they regrettably sought across the floor, on the other side of the dancers, having what looked like an uproarious conversation with three young ladies whose brilliant giggles could be heard over the music from even where Christine stood.

She took Raoul's arm again with both of her hands and gestured with a tilt of her head for him to follow her gaze. "He is right over there."

"Aha!" Raoul smiled victoriously and left his own empty glass on a passing tray. "Then you will introduce us." He stepped away from the wall, bringing her with him.

"No!" she gasped, planting her feet firmly before he could take her any further. "I mean…I would really rather not."

He removed his arm from her grasp and turned to face her after another backwards glance at his first impression of Lord d'Arcy. "Why not?"

She pressed her lips together, her eyes darkening as they took in the image of one of d'Arcy's fleshy hands creeping around the bare shoulders of one of those girls while his other twisted one end of his rusty colored moustache. "I am avoiding him when I can."

"I have noticed. Despite how eager you know I am to meet him… Christine, all I want is an introduction."

She shook her head. "No, you don't. He is a vile man."

Raoul laughed at the adorableness of her severity and took her by the elbow, turning about to watch the scene again. "Vile? He looks most popular."

Christine shuddered and made herself look away. "With the pretty young women, I suppose."

Raoul glanced down at her, still confused, but now slightly alarmed. "Christine, has he offended you?"

She sighed softly and shook her head a little, uncertain how to explain. "He offered me the lead in his opera…"

"Wonderful!"

"At a price."

"A price…?" he asked, not quite sure if she could actually mean what he thought she might.

But then as he studied her, he could suddenly so easily read in her darting eyes, that primal fear that only a woman could understand from a man.

Raoul froze, and then looked back slowly, seeing the composer in an entirely blacker light. "What did you tell him?" he asked, without glancing back to her, his voice sharp and low.

She looked back up to his face, hesitant now. "I…I did not know what to tell him… I did not say anything at all either way at the time… He just seemed to assume that I would agree. And that is…" She shuddered a little again. "I am avoiding him."

She could see the muscles in Raoul's jaw clench as his eyes narrowed in the direction of d'Arcy's group. And then she was startled as, without another word, he suddenly broke away from her and moved to go straight across the dance floor.

She grabbed him by the arm, stopping him before he got far enough to disrupt the dancers. "What are you doing?" she gasped.

He did not pull away from her, but kept his eyes trained firmly on his target. "I am going to challenge him."

She tugged at his arm in attempt to return him to their previous location. "Raoul, don't be ridiculous!"

"How dare he! I'll kill him!"

"Raoul, please!" She tugged forcefully, attempting to avoid more surprised looks from the people nearby.

He looked back down at her finally, and after a wrought moment of desperate eye contact, he seemed to slightly relax.

"Confrontation will not solve anything." She continued to hold on to his arm, just in case.

"Neither will avoiding it."

"I know," she sighed. "But…You have to understand how things work at the Opera…"

"The politics here are not beyond me, Christine," he frowned. "But I absolutely refuse to stand for anybody, magnificent new composer or not, to put you in a compromising situation. If he even attempts to lay a finger on you—"

"I know, Raoul," she cut him off and tentatively released his arm. "And I… I thank you, but I will find a way to deal with it on my own."

"A part in an opera is not worth…" He now looked upon d'Arcy with unmasked disgust, "That." He barely prevented himself from moving forward again as he saw a group of gentlemen extract d'Arcy from the circle of women and lead him toward the large double doors.

Christine declined a tray of champagne glasses offered by a waiter, and then she took one of Raoul's hands, lightly resting her head against his shoulder. "I know…And I suppose this will be one opera you should not bother to come seeing for my sake…"

Raoul exhaled slowly and then turned his face to hers, reaching up with his free hand to stroke the curve of her cheek with white gloved fingertips. "Come seeing?" he asked gently, a soft smile touching his lips.

She blinked, confused for a moment, then corrected herself, "Coming to see… Champagne makes me say the strangest things…"

"That wasn't so strange." He tilted her face towards his, his eyes seeming now to dance with the waltz in the air. "But you see, Christine? This is just why I mean you should leave all this Opera business behind and marry me."

She gasped and pulled away from him, laughing with sudden brightness. She did not need to remind Raoul of her devotion to her art and to Erik, whom she could never abandon for the normal life of a wife, Raoul's or not. Raoul had long understood her situation, and though his jealousy was never completely submersed, he managed to content himself with enjoying what he could of Christine for now; however, small yet serious comments like his now never failed to emerge whenever given the opportunity.

Her hair tossed with a shake of her head, and she dismissed his words with practiced ease. "I think you, monsieur, have had too much champagne!"

But her laughter only brightened his smile and he beckoned over another waiter. "And I think you have not had enough." He handed her a fresh glass and took one for himself. "What shall we toast, Christine?"

She paused, giving the idea a moment's thought, and then met his eyes with a smile of her own. "Virtue?"

He laughed and shook his head. "Virtue it is then, as the lady desires. To virtue."

And shortly after the lovely clink of crystal, each of them was another glass of champagne worse for the night.

The colors of gowns blurred with the black of tuxedoes as Christine and Raoul continued to content themselves without participating in the dance. And each of them had long since lost track of time when their private whispers were suddenly interrupted by the alcohol-enhanced giggles of the same three young ladies that had only earlier been entertaining the infamous Lord d'Arcy.

"Oh, Christine Daaé, my dear, I see you've brought your favorite escort to yet another of our company bashes!"

"Oh, yes, but must you keep him pulled away all night in the corner as if you didn't want to share him with the rest of us?"

"Christine Daaé, you are so selfish! Some of us don't even have escorts, much less vicomtes!"

Raoul only laughed pleasantly, and Christine blushed with a mixture of embarrassment and exasperation.

"My dear ladies," he began with a smug smile, "I would rather spend the entire evening with Mademoiselle Daaé alone in a dark corner than be without her amid the largest, brightest crowd."

One of them hiccupped with laughter, "I am certain he would!" And then was immediately jabbed by both the others.

The girls, who Christine knew from the singers' ensemble, had never changed the too friendly manner in which they had treated her from when she too had been among their ranks in supporting roles.

"Have you heard anything from the auditions today?" one of them asked her eagerly.

She shook her head guardedly, "No… Nothing definite, that is."

Meanwhile another one of them whispered too loudly to Raoul, "Someone was looking for you… You know, that black-eyed ballerina who follows la Sorelli around like a terrier… What is her name?" She burst into giggles, unable to remember.

"Have you heard anything?" Christine asked her questioner curiously, but glanced over to Raoul as she caught part of the girl's whisper.

"Yes, actually, we have heard something!" she beamed.

Christine's attention immediately returned to the one before her. She wondered if what they had heard had been part of that too intimate group conversation they had witnessed earlier.

"All three of us are getting featured parts!" she chirped before Christine had even had the chance to ask.

"And a salary increase for extra rehearsals!" the second one added, while the third meanwhile gave Raoul a knowing smirk.

Christine immediately turned away in revulsion, but none of them seemed to notice as one at once pulled the other two away to share the news with the next friend they happened to see.

Part of Christine wondered if she should feel happy for them. None of them had managed to work their way up to featured roles before, and this would be an exciting opportunity for them… But she just could not dismiss the abhorrent feeling that not one of them had earned the promotion on the merit of their singing.

She was drawn from her upsetting thoughts by the pleasant smell of champagne as she realized Raoul was holding another crystal glass under her nose, waiting for her to accept it. She lifted her eyes to his fair and handsome features, which were beset with the most endearing expression of understanding. She took the glass, holding its stem carefully between her loose fingertips.

"To respect?" he offered.

She could not help but smile then, and she happily tipped her glass to his.

Afterwards, they danced. He admitted it was his excuse to hold her in his arms, but at this late hour, she did not care. They laughed together as the tightly swirled material of the skirts of her dress caused her to miss many a step, and danced carelessly, as if nobody was watching. And indeed, it was unlikely that anybody was watching, for most of the party's guests were even more inebriated by now than the charming young vicomte and his lovely little diva.

When the waltz had finished, they remained standing together on the dance floor, their heads still spinning long after their bodies had ceased to twirl. But the slick satin material of Christine's long, black glove caused her hand to slip from Raoul's shoulder as her strength to hold it there waned. He caught it before it fell to her side and graciously pressed a kiss to its back.

But then she swayed on her feet and he had to catch the rest of her before she fell completely. "Christine! Are you all right?"

She pressed a hand to her forehead, and squeezed her eyes shut, unable to focus on his face. "Yes, I just…I feel so faint all of a sudden…I… No… I need to sit down."

He held her aloft firmly and guided her to a chair near a refreshment table at the wall. "It's just the champagne," he said gently. "I am almost seeing two of you, myself…" He pressed her hand as she sat down. "Perhaps it was not so wise to dance, after all."

"No…" She clutched the thin arms of the chair, stray strands of her hair falling into her face as she leaned over. "I feel ill…" And then she almost laughed at her own misfortune, but could not quite manage the sound.

"You just need some water…" He straightened and glanced to the table, but saw at once that the water pitchers were empty. "Just stay right here," he offered. "I shall fetch you some."

She nodded, attempting to breathe away the nauseating dizziness that now overwhelmed her, and she could not even look up to him as he left her side for the first time that evening, on a mission to find her a glass of water.


	3. Lord d'Arcy is Here

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Chapter 1 Part 3:

_Lord d'Arcy is Here_

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It seemed to take forever for Raoul to return. Christine's nausea eventually passed, and she was taken over by a completely numbed feeling that transformed absolutely everything into softness beneath her touch. The material of her dress was too supple, the texture of the skin of her face felt spongy, and she felt that if she only had the strength to press down a little harder, she would be able to push right through the arm of her chair. And she felt hot, too hot; it was sweltering in this crowded room and she wished Raoul would hurry so that he might then take her someplace cooler. She used the handkerchief he had given her earlier to dab at her temples, but it felt rough and almost painful against the fluff that her face had become.

There was also a hollow buzzing feeling in her head, and she could not figure out whether it was in her nose or her ears, and was in the process of trying to pin down its location so she could focus on somehow eliminating it, when she became aware that someone had approached her.

She looked up, hoping to greet her friend's now long-awaited return, but was met only with the stunning presence of the man she had been attempting to avoid all night. In her state of loosened self-control, politeness could not keep a disappointed frown from her face.

But he did not seem to pay it a moment's attention. "Good evening, Miss Daaé."

She had almost forgotten how grating she could not help finding his affected accent that mixed British and French so cacophonously. She refused to meet his eyes and pointedly remained sitting.

"Good evening, monsieur… I am waiting for someone."

"I have noticed you sitting over here alone, waiting, as you say, ever since I stepped in the door."

She resisted a shudder at the idea of him watching her without her knowing it. But just how long had she been waiting now? "He is coming… He probably just had trouble finding… He will be back at any moment."

Lord d'Arcy nodded, and if she had looked at him, she would have seen the toothy smile he offered. "I am glad for that. I do hate to see a lady alone. But as I was observing you from right over there, I could not help getting the notion that you were desperately in need of a glass of water."

Christine looked up to him quickly.

"And far be it from me," he continued, "to ever ignore the plight of a lady in need."

And then he lifted his hand, which Christine had not bothered to notice before, and handed her a glass, half filled with still water.

She accepted it but looked up to him hesitantly. She wanted to ask how he knew, but it occurred to her that he had surely seen many a woman under the negative influence of champagne before. She said nothing of thanks and looked back down to the water. All she could wonder was what price he might ask in return for the gesture, but her tongue yearned for it and her dry throat ached for its coolness… So she lifted it to her lips and swallowed it quickly.

At once she choked and tried to spit it out, but it was too late. "This is not water!" she gasped amid the coughing that seized her.

He snatched the glass from her in alarm and immediately sniffed its contents. "Damn it all, you're right!"

She bent over in her seat, gripping her sides in attempt to control her sputtering.

He dropped the glass on the table. "You must forgive me, Miss Daaé." He chuckled as if no harm had been done. "I am afraid I have had one too many myself… I must have simply taken the wrong glass."

She shook her head, breathing heavily, and trying to see through the blurring shock of the clear alcohol that still burned like fire down her throat and into her stomach. Oh, where was Raoul? She needed water now more than ever!

She felt one of d'Arcy's hands on her shoulder then, and she pulled immediately away, looking up to him, startled into breathing correctly.

He studied her face with that same smile. "There now. Once it goes down, it's not so bad, is it?"

She stood abruptly, but had to grab hold of the arm of her chair to keep herself up.

He turned from her and went to check the water pitchers on the table. "There's none left here." He looked back at her. "But I know just where to get you some."

She shook her head quickly and then immediately regretted it, as she could not straighten it again. "No thank you."

He chuckled again, "Oh, I see, you do not trust me. I assure you, Miss Daaé, I will not make the same mistake twice."

"No," she managed between fresh coughs. "Thank you."

"It really is no trouble. It is just around the corner out those doors there. I say, why don't you just come along and observe. You can watch me pour it into a glass for you myself, and see exactly where it comes from." His pale green eyes twinkled with what could have been amusement or perhaps too much of the spirits.

The coughing had become worse again, and Christine could not even manage an answer this time. How she needed water! She thought of just going to find it herself, but as she stepped forward, she misjudged the distance the confining skirts of her gown allowed her and she stumbled on her feet.

He took her by the arm then. "That's right, it's right this way." And he led her to the doors, into the hall, and around the corner.

She recognized the room they entered as one of the reception rooms even though all the furniture had been rearranged and several long, skirted tables had been set up down its center. The tables were empty of food and drink, but nonetheless covered in clean bowls, platters, tureens, and serving utensils.

He took his arm from hers and left her side to approach the table. The place where his elbow had pressed into her dress felt wet and sticky now. And she realized that she felt clammy all over and much too warm as her dress clung uncomfortably to her glistening skin. With nothing to support her, she swayed slightly before putting a hand against the mirror that covered wall above the chair rail on the door side of the room.

"I believe the buffet was originally intended to be held here," he said as he moved down the length of a table, glancing into the silver bowls that sparkled in the flickering lights of the gas lamps. "But they moved it into a larger room with larger platters at the last minute. Quite a turn out for my little soirée, wouldn't you say? Most of them have gone now, though."

His voice sounded too far away to Christine, and it echoed annoyingly about her mind too long before dissipating. As she waited, she watched her own reflection in the yellowed mirror, surprised and almost disgusted by the ruddiness of her own features. But she made sure to keep an eye on his reflection as well.

"Eureka!" he laughed. "I have hit the jackpot!"

She turned back to him as quickly as she could manage and saw that he had found a large bowl filled with long melting ice.

"Saved by the miracle of shrimp once again," he grinned, foolishly for someone his age.

She made her way over to the table, supporting herself on furniture where she could, and looked down into the bowl that had never had the chance to hold any shrimp. She had to admit there was absolutely nothing suspicious about the crystal fresh water that mingled there among shrunken ice pieces. She could already taste its refreshing clear coldness…

He took a cup from the opposite table and dipped it by its handle into the ice water and held it ceremoniously out to Christine. "As promised, mademoiselle."

She took it and turned from him, drinking it as quickly as she could. She did not think she had ever tasted anything so revitalizing as long as she had lived!

But as she finished, she realized he was standing directly behind her, so close that she distinctly felt pressure against the padded material of the gathered bustle of her skirt. And then his hand reached around her and took the cup from her to set it aside.

She stepped away quickly and spun about to face him.

He chuckled again, but softly this time, in the deep parts of his throat, "My, aren't you a feisty little thing. Just lovely, though. Exquisite."

She took another step back and glanced to the door. She did not remember closing that door.

He tilted his head to one side as he looked at her. "Just delicious, aren't you?" And then he approached her again. "If only you did not insist upon dressing yourself like a nun in a convent." He stopped at her side and traced a fleshy finger from the black material of the shoulder of her dress down its neckline. "Though I've never known a nun who would expose quite so much of her white bosom."

She turned away from him quickly, but he caught her by the elbow.

"Monsieur!" she gasped, as her eyes darted about the room, only to find their dim reflections in the mirror.

"Why don't you call me Ambrose?" he offered. "And I will call you Christine. Would you like that, Christine?"

She shook her head and pulled away from him, but stumbled again against her own skirts. "I do not feel well," she managed. "And I am waiting for someone. I must return…"

"Oh look!" he exclaimed, seeming to not have heard one word she had said. "There is a piano in here. How convenient."

She followed his gaze, confused, and saw that there was indeed a large, brown, grand piano in the opposite corner of the room.

"You said you would sing for me, didn't you? Why don't we have our first lesson right now."

Her mouth opened, but she did not know what to say. And he took her by the arm again to lead her over to the piano. But with each step they took, he pulled her closer and closer against his side.

He leaned down to her ear as he spoke, the foul alcohol on his breath stifling her, "You are quite a delicious creature. I could teach you a lot, Christine, you know that? And I mean a whole lot more than just singing."

She gasped and with all her strength, wrenched herself away from him. But she stumbled again, and as she fell to the ground, her head came into sharp contact with the hard edge of the table. Pain shot through her entire body, and she collapsed into a crumpled heap. Moaning, she lifted a weak and shaky hand to her head, and her fingers sank into the warm, soft blood that was already oozing into her hair. Her hand fell then and she briefly saw the thick red that soaked into her black glove before her eyes fell shut.

"My, oh my." His voice was distant, as if from another world, but his heavy and sticky hands were right there, around her waist, pulling her back up.

She could vaguely feel the slowness of the blood as it trailed down her hanging face, and she tried to open her eyes. If only she could open her eyes…

She thought he might have said something else then, but her ears were deafened by the searing pain in her head. Her vision swam now between blurred images and grey fog. The last things her completely numbed senses recognized were the hard lip of the table pressing into her stomach as she was bent over its top and the gust of cold air against the clammy flesh of her thighs as her clinging skirts seemed to tear so easily away. And then blackness claimed her.

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	4. Lord d'Arcy is Dead

Chapter 1 Part 4:

_Lord d'Arcy is Dead_

When Christine awoke, that was all that she could remember. Though she did not remember it all right away; in fact, as she awoke she was aware of nothing but the most torturously excruciating pain she had ever known. Her head felt as if it were being brutally crushed in on all sides, and her entire body was so weak that she could not even lift a hand to the pounding under her temples. What had happened…? Where was she…?

Then suddenly it all came back to her. The horrifying realization forced her eyes open, but her right eyelid was stiff and as she pushed herself up, she managed to wipe at it. Rough, red flakes of dried blood sprinkled off into her white palm. She stared at them and her breathing became erratically halted simultaneously as her hand began to shake as she also noticed that the skin of her chest above the neckline of her dress was smeared with stains of blood.

She pushed herself up completely, whimpering at the pain the effort caused her, and looked frantically about her surroundings. It took her a moment of blank confusion before she realized that the whole room was reflected in that giant mirror that covered an entire wall. She was in her own dressing room, lying on her own divan. The lights were on, her door was closed, and she had absolutely no idea how she had come to be there.

She squeezed her eyes shut again against the agonizing ache and forced herself to stand, her fingers digging into the quilted fabric for support. She willed her feet to take a step to turn around to face the mirror, but as she moved, something did not feel right about her skirts. She opened her eyes again to look down and at once realized that the black silk of her skirts along with her white petticoats were haplessly torn, and hung about her legs in shapeless tatter. She lifted them gently, whimpering again, and then realized that though it was invisible to the eye, the black fabric was all over stiffened with dried blood. Very slowly, she ran her hands up the front of her dress, feeling where the silk was smooth and where it became coarse and abrasive under her touch all the way up to the top of her bodice. She was covered in it.

But as she looked down at her hands and arms, she realized her pale skin there was soft and unstained. How was that possible? If she had hit her head and touched that blood enough to have it spread all over her dress, how could her hands be so clean?

She lifted her head finally to face herself in the mirror. Choking on a gasp, she fell back against the divan. The golden hair that she had done up so carefully was completely disheveled and half was browned with blood. She could not even see the wound that she felt throbbing against her scalp as matted hair clung, pasted to the torn flesh from which a mapwork of dried browning rivers streamed across her eyelid, down her cheek, and under her chin to continue on all the way down between her breasts. But most startling of all, halfway across the neckline of her dress and onto the trembling flesh of her chest, the smear of blood took the clear shape of a handprint. She lifted her own hand to it and it was shaking almost too much now to press it against the shape. But as she did, eyes locked on the gruesome reflection in the mirror, the shape dwarfed her own small hand, and she understood that the print could not be her own.

Her weak limbs could no longer hold her even with the support of the divan, and as she collapsed back into it, it felt as if she floated there to rest again upon its softness as the pounding in her head exploded once more into unconsciousness…And the only last thought she could grasp was that if she had bled this much from her head, how, oh how could she ever still be alive?

There was no way she could have known how long she had slept, but she felt none the more rested when she was awoken by the shouts and clamor of her door being forced open. When she looked up, she saw Raoul, dressed differently than she remembered, gaping at her with horrified shock from the doorway.

But his paralysis lasted only a moment and at once he was at her side, immediately followed into the room by two uniformed policemen.

"Christine!" he gasped. He attempted to take her in his arms, but drew back immediately as she moaned in pain at his touch.

He turned back to the policemen and ordered, half terrified, "Get the doctor!"

One of them dashed from the room while the other moved back only as far as the hall.

"Raoul…" Christine managed, her trembling fingers taking hold of the lapel of his jacket where he bent over her.

"Oh, thank god, Christine!" he exclaimed, so grateful to only hear her speak.

She tried to focus on his face, but the lights were too bright. "Where am I?" she breathed.

He lifted a hand to brush the hair from the wound on her head, but then thought better of it and decided to wait to let the doctor do that. Instead, he took her hand, clasping it to his chest. "In your dressing room…"

She tried to turn her head, but bit back a gasp at the pain that immediately assaulted her temples. "Yes…" she whispered. "Someone brought me here…"

"Who?" he asked so loudly and quickly that it made her cringe and turn away.

He stroked her hand gently and asked again, much more softly, "Who?"

"I… I don't know…"

There was a commotion in the hallway that caught both their attentions then as the remaining policeman had to aggressively request that a gathering crowd disperse.

Raoul turned back to Christine, leaning closer to her and whispering fearfully, "Christine, what happened to you?"

She tried again with a bit more success to focus on him. "I hit my head… I don't know… I fell and I… I hit my head… I'm bleeding…"

Raoul stroked her hand more fervently, "It's all right, Christine… The doctor is coming."

The hubbub in the hall had begun to escalate into an uproar.

"Raoul," she whimpered. "What is going on?"

He hesitated only a moment before answering, "Lord d'Arcy is dead."

Her eyes widened impossibly. "Dead!" she gasped.

He softened his voice even more. "Yes…Murdered."

She groaned, tears flooding her eyes and she turned away from him as he continued to speak.

"He was stabbed to death, Christine… In one of the reception rooms on the main level."

"No…" she moaned.

Raoul glanced back at the door as he heard the police shouting orders to the crowd to make way for the doctor.

He moved around Christine again to face her quickly in the time he had left, begging desperately, "Christine, please tell me what happened…"

"I don't remember… He took me… He… I hit my head…"

"Christine!" He grasped her by the shoulders more roughly than he ever would have done if he had had more time. "What did he do to you?"

She closed her eyes, unable to answer, unable to remember, and then the doctor entered the room with a police escort.

"Close that door," he instructed the officer in the hall, and then turned to Raoul, "And you! What in God's name are you doing?"

Raoul released Christine and drew back. "What took so long?"

The doctor pulled a stool next to Christine's resting place and turned her face to him, causing her to wince. He examined each of her eyes and then went straight to the wound under her hair.

"Make yourself useful," he gestured at Raoul, "and bring me some clean water and some towels?"

"No!" Christine's hand shot up, grasping Raoul's. "Don't go!"

The doctor turned and made the same request of one of the policemen.

"I won't go anywhere, Christine." Raoul clasped her hand, kissing her fingers gently.

"So this is the infamous Christine?" the doctor asked as he resumed his task, having heard Raoul's words.

Christine's eyes shifted to him. "What…?"

Raoul shot the old man a look. "Have some decency."

"What is it?" Christine asked, becoming frightened.

"They've told you Lord Ambrose d'Arcy has been murdered haven't they?"

"Yes," Raoul answered for her, "She knows."

"But did they tell you what was written on the wall, on the mirror, in the man's own blood above his slaughtered body?"

Raoul turned abruptly on the doctor as Christine paled. "Can't you see you're upsetting her?"

"No…" Christine squeezed Raoul's hand that she refused to release. "Tell me…"

The doctor looked to Raoul as he dampened Christine's matted hair with the water that had been delivered.

Raoul sighed and knelt to her, meeting her eyes.

"What was written on the wall?" she asked again, her small, shaking voice sounding like the frightened whisper of a child.

The movement of water and the distant sounds of the crowd in the hall beyond the closed door pounded against her suffering ears for a long moment of hesitation before he finally answered:

"For Christine."


	5. Questions Without Answers

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Chapter 2 Part 1:

_Questions Without Answers_

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The tall clock against the far wall of the anteroom outside the Opera's offices was one minute away from striking eleven, and Christine watched it from her seat with as much fear as she would have likely watched an approaching sinister stranger in a dark and deserted street. Her fingertips fluttered over the soft bandage that had been affixed to her temple by the doctor, but she did not dare touch it for the pain that still throbbed beneath it. He had given her something for it, but it had only just begun to take effect and she knew her headache would come shredding back again the moment the chimes commenced.

"Spend the day in bed," the man had told her. But only a quarter of an hour later, she had received the police summons to appear at once in the room they had appropriated to host their investigation. Her maid, who having been sent from home in concern and had managed to force her way through the throng outside her dressing room door, had helped Christine wash and dress before she was escorted to where she now waited in trembling anxiety. The dress she now wore was cream colored and left her cold. And in far too much pain for combs or pins, her hair had only been tied back loosely to keep it from sticking to the adhesive around her injury, and thanks to it, the headache had finally begun to fade.

Eleven chimes later, however, she could not suppress a moan.

"What is it, miss?" The young officer leaning against the door opposite straightened with concern.

She withdrew her hand from her eyelids. "Will it be much longer?" she asked softly.

"I am terribly sorry, miss," was his only reply.

Raoul had been asked away from her room just before her maid's arrival by someone she had been too unfocused to recognize. She had hoped he would return before she was required to leave, but was disappointed when the next knock at her door had only been another policeman. How she wished he could be with her now, how she needed him. She had instructed her maid to wait in her dressing room for the sole purpose of telling him at once where she had gone when he returned.

"Another murder," sighed the officer who watched over her now. "Could make a man begin to believe in ridiculous rumors after all."

"Who?" asked Christine as she made herself look to him again.

"Nothing." He shook his head and then stepped quickly away from the door as it opened behind him. A man emerged and informed them that the Police Commissary was ready to see her.

Christine was led into the room and very politely offered a chair across the desk from his seat. He stood quickly and made her a little bow, the sympathy evident upon every part of his expression.

"Ah, Mademoiselle Daaé," he began. "I do not believe we have met, though I myself am familiar with you."

"You are?" she asked timidly as she settled cautiously into the cushioned chair.

"I am Inspector Mifroid." He resumed his seat. "It is my business to be familiar with all that is involved in, amongst others of course, the cases of criminal activity at the fine establishment of the Opera. And I am certain I am not the only one who regrets to realize that your name has appeared perhaps more often than any other among many of them lately."

She wrung her hands about each other slowly where they were hidden under the edge of the table and glanced to the two other policemen that stood attentively behind her in the room. "What do you mean?" she asked Mifroid.

"We will come to that shortly," he said as he flipped open a brown folder on the desk before him. "Or perhaps at a later time. I understand you have been injured and would not think of overtaxing you beyond what is necessary for the moment. In order to hasten your return to recovery, I hope you do not mind if I am blunt in proceeding with the questioning. We have spent much of this morning already speaking with your colleagues."

She lifted her eyes to look across to him again. "Questioning?"

He nodded and tapped a pen against the side of his mouth before, with no more ceremony, beginning, "It appears you were the last person seen with the victim, the Lord Amrbose d'Arcy, when he was alive. The two of you left the great crush room downstairs in each others' company alone at approximately two-thirty this morning. This was witnessed on more than one account. I will need you right now to tell me everything that occurred after that time."

"I…" Christine shook her head slowly, pressing a very unsteady hand against the edges of her bandage. "Monsieur Mifroid, I feel very unwell and most of my memories of last night are beyond my grasp…"

"You must _try, _mademoiselle. After all, it was your name which was written upon the wall."

She winced and attempted to fight back the frightened tears that pinched the corners of her eyes. "I remember," she began even more softly after a moment, "I remember going into the hall with him… And into another room. I remember it was empty. You must understand I was feeling ill and faint."

He nodded again with another sympathetic frown and waved a hand to one of the men. "Tell the secretary to bring the lady a glass of water. Do go on, mademoiselle."

"A glass of water!" She looked up again too quickly for her headache to bear. "It was why we went. I remember as much now. That was all there was to it…"

"You went into the hall to another room for a glass of water," he said calmly. "Where was this other room?"

"We did not walk far. There were empty buffet tables…"

"Ah," he made a note in his folder. "And then what happened?"

"We were alone." She took to slowly wringing her hands again. "He…he took me by the arm and would not let me go." Squeezing her eyes shut, she wanted to recall the memory as desperately as she wanted to black it out eternally. "I know I fought with him…I know I got away from him because I tripped and I hit my head on…on something… I…"

"Yes, yes," he interjected kindly and reached across the desk to hand her a handkerchief.

She took her time to wipe at her eyes before she could continue. "He would not let me go. I felt his hands on me… He tore my dress…he…" She clutched at the creamy material over her heart.

Mifroid's frown twisted into a frustrated grimace. He put down his pen to wave in the secretary who had arrived with the water, and then waited until he was gone again before pressing Christine once more. "I understand this is a very upsetting and difficult line of questioning for a young lady such as yourself to answer, mademoiselle. But the law begs to know every detail. You must finish your tale as precisely as you can."

"I can't remember!" she gasped.

"Did the victim abuse you?"

"The victim!" She twisted the glass she had been given between her hands and shook her throbbing head in despair.

"Mademoiselle Daaé, did Lord Ambrose d'Arcy have his way with you?"

She shook her head more violently. "I remember nothing… I… I…" she gasped for breath. "But…no… It could not be. Could it?" She looked up at him again through her tears, attempting to regain some measure of calmness. "He could not have. No."

"But it was his intention?"

"Yes," she answered with incredibly soft clarity.

"Ah, so you found yourself alone with him, feeling unwell and faint, hit your head, and fell victim to his intention. What happened then?"

"I remember nothing after. But when I awoke this morning, it was only my head that suffered."

"And you awoke in your dressing room? How did you come to be there?"

"I don't remember. Someone brought me there. The blood…it…my dress…"

"Where is the clothing you were wearing?"

"It is there still."

He nodded. "We will be needing it at once. Mademoiselle Daaé, I need you now to try very hard to tell me who it was that conveyed you to your dressing room."

She could only shake her head, her fearful eyes wide.

Mifroid put his pen down again and folded his hands on the desktop, leaning over it toward her. "The person who helped you, mademoiselle, even if he or she is responsible for the crime, is your savior from what could have been a very deplorable circumstance, don't you believe?"

"I…"

"Perhaps this person," he continued, "was merely passing by and witnessed your struggle and took it upon himself to rescue a damsel in distress. You would like to thank him wouldn't you? I imagine we all would!"

"I cannot remember…"

"You do not need to protect him if it was an act of defense. The law offers protection enough in such cases."

She only shook her head again and set the untouched water back upon the desk. "Monsieur, if I could tell you…"

He sighed and sat back against his chair. "Of course, mademoiselle." He took up his pen again and began to write, saying as he did, "Is there anyone you know, or can think of, who would especially come to your aid? Or who also could potentially have been watching you with Lord d'Arcy, unbeknownst to you, and taken action when the situation turned as you have described?"

Christine's hands froze mid-wring.

Mifroid's eyes lifted from his notes expectantly.

"No…" She faltered and shook her head as she managed to speak again. "Anyone? Who would do such a thing?"

"A ghastly thing," he agreed, "but heroic, no?"

"No…"

"Not even," he leaned forward slightly more, "your acquaintance and last night's escort, Monsieur de Chagny, the younger?"

The handkerchief she held almost tore where she twisted it between her hands. "He couldn't!" she gasped.

Miroid only nodded and returned to note-writing. "So you would say that there was no one at all?" When she gave no verbal response, he continued, "And, as we have asked all those we have questioned this morning, would you say you knew of anyone with a particular vendetta against the victim?"

"I…" Christine tore her gaze from where it had drifted to the mirror on the side wall of the room. "I'm sorry?"

"Anyone who might have had a particular prior wish to do him harm."

She was quiet for several moments too long before saying, "No."

Mifroid stood. "Very well, mademoiselle. As I have said, our investigation will be requiring the clothing you were wearing last night as well as any other articles you had in your possession. You have said they are just down in your dressing room. If you would be so kind as to bring them back to us immediately, it should not take you longer than a few minutes."

She tried to regain control of her breathing and nodded quickly as she rose from the chair. "Yes, yes. I shall bring them at once."

He bowed to her politely again and gestured to the policeman by the door to let her go out. A third man moved to follow her, but he was stopped by a call from Mifroid:

"That is not necessary, Bernard. Let her go alone."

But Christine knew she did not imagine the abrupt gesture the commissary made to one of them as it was reflected in the mirror at her side just before she passed through the door. It closed sharply behind her, and she found herself alone again with the clock in the anteroom.

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End file.
